Arguing Insanity
by treena-ivy-carter
Summary: Amelia discovers her lover's secret. Her remark on him being a drifting serial killer apparently wasn't that far off. "Sam Winchester, the most famous serial killer and mass murderer of America, the second half of the Brothers Grimm, has been apprehended last night. America can finally rest now that the surviving half of the Deadly Duo will now be brought to justice." Season 8.


**Author's Note: Okay, to set the scene, Dean is in Purgatory and has been for about a year and a half or so (so we're past the Canon time where he escaped Purgatory), but times moves slower in Purgatory than it does on Earth. A day in Purgatory, in this fic, is five days Topside – so Dean will get out of Purgatory in about three and half to four years (making his body technically the same age as Sam's, give or take a few months, but that doesn't matter). Also, Don really is dead because he is not majorly important. Sam and Amelia have been together for about ten-eleven months, Dog/Riot is happy and healthy, and the couple are attempting to heal themselves from their wounds. Sam has started to draw Devil's Traps under the carpets and he salts the windows and doors every night after Amelia goes to sleep, and Henry Winchester has already travelled to the future (Sam has the key and knows where the bunker is – which is why he is back in the life). And Sam also tracked down Kevin and hid him in the bunker (So some of the Canon Season 8 applies but any mention of vampires, angels, the trials and Dean has been eliminated – think around Season Eight, Episode Thirteen). Sam is looking at colleges but knows he can't apply because he told Amelia his real name rather than an alias, and she would ask if he applied using a new identity. **

**Sam is twenty-nine, going on thirty. Amelia is twenty-six, going on twenty-seven. Dean is thirty-three, and in five years, will be just about thirty-four. Sam and Amelia live in a fictional town in suburban Texas and only go to fictional places – any recognisable names from the real world are completely coincidental, and any in-universe mess-ups, please forgive me. Also, as I am not a lawyer, pre-law, or law major, nor a psychologist, medical doctor, or psychiatrist, if facts are off, you may P.M. me and I will correct them. **

**Disclaimer: **I wrote this for fun and not for profit. If asked, I will remove it. Any real life connections to names and places are coincidental. Any references to Sam, Dean, Castiel, and in-verse things belong to Kripke, CW, and Co. Google belongs to Google.

**Warnings: **Warning for mentions and performance of perjury on the stand, mentions and vague descriptions of child abuse (of all kinds), mentions of severe mental illness, mentions of prison rape (not graphically or explicitly explained), mentions of prison gangs, mentions and semi-graphic descriptions of heart problems, mentions of murder, etc. No graphic rape. No graphic torture. Slightly implied Wincest, if you squint, either in the perjury accounts or in real-in-verse canon. Also, swear words and British English.

**Summary: **Amelia discovers her lover's secret. Her remark on him being a drifting serial killer apparently wasn't that far off. "Sam Winchester, the most famous serial killer and mass murderer of America, the second half of the Brothers Grimm, has been apprehended last night. America can finally rest now that the surviving half of the Deadly Duo will now be brought to justice."

* * *

><p>"Yeah, Stacy," Amelia laughed, looked at the glinting rock and simple silver band around her left finger, on top of Don's – bless his heart – own rings, "He asked me to marry him!"<p>

"_That's amazing, Mel! But…" _

"But what?" Amelia's smile dropped slightly, "What's wrong?"

"_Isn't it a bit soon for that? You've only been together for like half a year."_

Amelia shrugged, manoeuvring her phone so that it was balanced between her shoulder and her ear as she dropped another dish into the dishwasher, "The last time he wanted to ask someone to marry him, the girl apparently died before he got the chance to. Besides, Sam and I really need this. It'll make us happy."

"_That's all that matters, I guess."_

"That should be all that matters."

"_Well, when's the wedding? Or are you just going to elope? I wouldn't put it passed you, now. I mean, Don has only been gone for – _"

"He's been gone for a year, Stacy," Amelia frowned, feeling tears tinge at her eyes, "Don't be coy. You know how I feel about people who euphemise death. He's dead now, I can't do anything about it. I can only move on with my life, I can only appreciate Sam, now, and we're getting married, and that's final."

"_Okay, okay, Mel, I didn't mean to bring up anything bad. I'm happy for you. I am. I just find it a bit weird._"

"Well, it may be weird for you, but this is my life, now."

"_Let's move on, okay? Wanna hear something really weird? Try Googling yourself – sometimes the results can be real freaky. You can find yourself as a toddler, your parents, your exes – it's amazing what's on the internet, now._"

Amelia scoffed, "Yeah, right. That's _real_ scary, Stace. What came up for you?"

"_Everything! Well, except my social security number, thank God – you should try it. But just to warn you, Don might come up under your name_."

"I doubt it. Unlike you, I think of myself as a very private person – I don't even have a Facebook or a Twitter or any of those new things. I'm just not into everyone knowing my business," Amelia sighed, closing the dishwasher door and turning a few knobs, "Besides Amelia Richardson isn't that rare a name – I bet they'll be a bunch of random people from like Kansas or Canada or Kentucky or something."

"_Just check it out. Call me, kay?_"

"Love you, Stace, we should visit some time. Are you still in Miami?"

"_Nah, Tim and I are heading up to Maine soon. He saw something funny astronomically or something – you know how he is_. _Love you, babe._"

Amelia smiled softly, looking at her ring once more as she hung up the phone. She didn't care how soon it was – it made her happy. It gave her new beginnings. It gave her something to get up in the mornings for. It gave _Sam _something to get up in the morning for.

Hours later, Sam called her, telling her he was heading out to the gun range after work at the gun shop – he had gotten a call from one of his more frequent customers (Garth Fitzgerald IV – a _dentist_, can you believe it?) and had to help him out with his jammed gun and fix up one of his trigger guards. Amelia didn't really like guns but her daddy seemed to like the fact that Sam could handle himself around guns, and that in their garage he seemed to have a shrine of the things. Daddy liked knowing Sam could protect her if they were ever attacked despite his early misgivings about Sam's daddy being in the Marines and how Sam isn't in college even though he got accepted at Stanford (he dropped out after his girlfriend-might-have-been-fiancée died).

She fixed herself some lasagne and walked Riot (she still couldn't believe Sam was calling him Dog for so long – sometimes she was really surprised at how Sam was in some aspects. It was almost as if Sam didn't know how to act like everyone else. She liked that about him, she did, but sometimes his quirks warded off the neighbours, and she liked being friends with people), and by nine Sam called again to tell her he was having a guy's night with Kevin and Garth.

Amelia was used to that, too. About five months prior to their engagement, Sam woke up from another nightmare – he had those a lot, too often for his upbringing to have been this shits and giggles happiness he told her about – walked over to his bag, pulled out his phone and called someone. He growled under his breath and when she asked him about it later, he told her that he was so sure something was going to happen, but he didn't know what. He just had a strong feeling that something was supposed to change – and something did. Sam went out and got a job at the gun shop, he went off for days at a time and would come back a bit bruised up and sad, sometimes he'd come home and just crawl into bed behind her and hold her tight as if he was afraid she was going to disappear, and once he just wondered back in after a week and a half away from her falling down drunk and sobbing and throwing things across the room. He even kicked Riot.

That last one, the one where he was so drunk and terribly sad and horrifyingly angry, she had called Stacy and stayed with her a few days with Riot. Sam came by and apologised about that. He brought her the key to the house and asked her if she wanted him to leave and never come back because "What I did, to you, to Riot, that, that was unforgivable. I had acted like, like some fucking piece of shit alcoholic. I acted like my dad, and that was horrible. And I better just leave and _I'm so so_– " That was when she had taken him in her arms and forgave him. She went home and poured all the alcohol down the drain, and did it each and every time Sam bought some, until he didn't buy it anymore. A month and a half of sober days later, Sam told her why he had drowned his sorrows.

It had apparently been because his cousin Henry had died the same week that it was Dean's birthday.

He also said that that was no excuse to treat her that way.

That was when she finally fell in love with him and gave up her grief for Don for good.

Yes she'd love her husband, her first husband, until the day she died, but she could love Sam, too. She does love Sam, with all her being, as her second husband.

The next day, when Sam came back with a new bruise on his side but a smile on his face she remembered what Stacy had said about Googling yourself. If she found anything cool about herself, she'd show Sam and he could do the same. In fact, if Sam did it, pictures of Dean might come up, and Sam would like that, she thought to herself.

Sam went off to work and she was off because it was a Saturday, so she sat down at their computer desk and fired up the famous search engine. She smiled giddily and typed her name in.

Not many pictures of her came up, but she did find her high school, her college, and her practice. She found a few wedding photos from the wedding planner's website, she found a picture of herself with Don when he enlisted, and she found her parents. She wasn't expecting that much but thankfully nothing embarrassing came up.

She went to call Sam and tell him to do the same, but when she picked up the phone she smiled mischievously to herself. If she was lucky, pictures of Dean, and maybe Sam's family, too, might come up and she could surprise him for his upcoming birthday. After all, he didn't have more than a single picture in the garage of Dean and himself, and none of his family. It would be a great birthday present, she told herself, and for all Sam's intelligence, he would never have thought of doing that.

She hung up the phone and sat back down at the computer desk.

She typed in his name: Sam Winchester, and the dropdown list of suggestions was surprisingly long: _Sam Winchester – the Brothers Grimm_, _Sam Winchester – Dead?_, _Sam and Dean Winchester_, _Samuel Winchester, Sam Winchester and St. Louis_, _Sam Winchester – the Brothers Grimm Conspiracy _and so on and so forth. Her smile faded slightly, was "Sam Winchester" really that common of a name? But, the middle one, the one that said "Sam and Dean" seemed to suggest that her lover, her awkward, socially inept fiancé, was often Googled on the internet. Did this have to do with his shady past that he never wanted to talk about aside from a few drunken stories about his late brother that he seemed to worship, about his vaguely abusive, alcoholic father, about his late girlfriend? Or was it a coincidence? Dean wasn't as common as say Sam or John, but shit happens right?

Well, she decided to just hit enter on "Sam Winchester" alone just to see.

Her world, nice and orderly and colourful and as bright as the dawning sun, came to screeching halt. Her smile froze dead on her face and slid off like blood on a windshield.

No.

She was looking at the FBI Most Wanted List, and at Number 1, right there, was her fiancé and her dead soon-to-be-brother-in-law. The pictures were old. The ones with mugshots in black and white, spelling out Little Rock, Arkansas, had Sam looking shame-faced and terribly young, clearing at 6'4," and Dean – so this was the great Dean? – acting like Flynn Rider in _Tangled_, clearing at 6'1." She felt sick. The only difference between her tall, caring lover with his long, Dr. Sexy, M. D., hair and this criminal on the screen was age and stubble.

It had to be a mistake.

It had to be.

There was no way Sam, her Sam, her _fiancé _was this serial killer wanting for murders, grave desecration and federal officer impersonation in nearly every state except Hawaii and Alaska.

She hit the back button, swallowing bile, and typed in "the Brothers Grimm."

Psychologists talked about them, people compared them to Bonnie and Clyde, Sundance the Kid and Butch Cassidy, Jesse and Frank James, they were splashed across every tabloid and newspaper, their murder count was in the hundreds, and maybe even the thousands because they haven't been caught, they have faked their deaths several times and the case remains open because many officers and agents fought to keep it that way, sure of the fact that the brothers were alive and well.

Even worse than the accusations were the fans that called the Brothers Grimm (_The Brothers Grimm, not Sam, not ever Sam_) heroes, that had the films of the brothers shooting up diners everywhere, the security tapes of the bank they robbed, pictures of every single victim ranging from infant to elderly, from men to women, from fabulously gay to stringently straight, from black to white to yellow to red; there were pictures of every single weapon ranging from guns, to knives, to flamethrowers, to salt, to needles, to sticks, to stones, to glass (so many tools, most of which were in her garage right now); there were pictures of their parents John and Mary Winchester – John, a sexual, alcoholic, abusive sadist, and Mary, John's first known victim, her "accidental death" being reassigned to homicide rather than house fire after Sam's girlfriend _("I wanted to marry her, but Dean came to visit for a guy's night, and the house caught on fire while we were out. She died without knowing I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her") _died in the exact same way the exact weekend Dean Winchester found Sam once again. There were pictures of the Brothers Grimm – separate and apart. There were the mugshots, several for both brothers at many ages. There were yearbook pictures at hundreds of schools. There was a picture of Jessica Moore comparing her to Mary Winchester looking very similar.

There were biographies of each brother detailing a horrific upbringing with severe speculations towards abuse – all types of abuse, ranging from emotional, to verbal, to physical, to – Oh God, please no – sexual abuse. There were thousands of teachers' statements attesting to frequent injuries, to fractured arms, to limps, to bruises, to concussions. There were CPS agents being interviewed over how anytime John caught wind of them being in town, he disappeared with his children at his side. There were pages upon pages of pictures of various degrees of burns and marks on each body. She even recognised some of those injuries as scars on Sam's body – he said they were from a car accident.

Hours later, having read twenty-three years of her fiancé's life, she found the car accident. She read the records of a drunk driver never indicted, of the tragic testimony of a nurse who watched Sam Winchester cry at his comatose brother's side and scream at his father for doing something "Doing what," the nurse spoke, "I had no idea. But I heard several words that didn't make sense – _why didn't you just shoot me? _One yelled, I remember. And I heard a name from the daddy's room. Azazel – it sounds like a demon name, that's what I thought at the time. That morning, when comatose one woke up, the daddy died. I don't wanna know how but the doctors couldn't explain it. It was like those brothers, those godforsaken pair, made some sort of Faustian Deal, exchanging their daddy's life for theirs. "

Amelia felt sick, terribly sick.

She kept reading the site, she had to, she owed to Sam – no, she owed it to _herself_. She pressed on, reading about an FBI agent, an explosion that allowed them to fake their deaths, countless theories about their mental states, mass murder replacing serial murder….

"Paranoid Schizophrenia," she breathed.

"Manic Depression," she whispered.

"Borderline Personality Disorder," she cried.

"Dissociative Identity Disorder," she mumbled.

"Religious Psychosis," she murmured.

"Narcissist," she growled.

"Psychopath," she uttered like a prayer. It really said 'Antisocial Personality Disorder,' but she knew what that really meant. Everyone did.

The man she had been ready to marry and spend her life with until the end of her days was…

He was a sociopath.

She reached for the phone. She knew what she must do.

If they didn't come quick enough though….

She felt her fingers move. Three beeps rang out.

"_9-1-1, what is your emergency_?"

"My fiancé is a serial killer," she replied looking at the mugshot one last time, his frowning face, and then at the frozen internet picture from the iPhone video, where her lover was grinning at the world with dead bodies all around him, a machine gun in his hands, and his brother behind him, "He's at work at 211 Fay Street in Marble, Texas. It's a gun shop."

"_What's his name?_"

"Sam Winchester."

She hung up.

She looked at her silver ring, at the glinting diamond, and started to cry.

…

"Thanks Tony," Sam grinned, "See you next week. Have fun with your girlfriend."

"You too, Sam. Congrats, man. You're about to get hitched."

Sam smiled and turned off the flashing OPEN sign. He went to lock the door when he felt a chill run down his spine. His smile slid off of his face as he tensed. He stopped halfway there and felt a share pain in his forehead. He reached up to rub his head when he heard it. His police-scanner handheld transceiver was saying the address of the gun shop. He pulled it slowly out of his back pocket and turned up the volume. It repeated the federal code for wanted felon and he felt nauseous. He shook his head gingerly and sat down. He couldn't run. If he ran, he'd have to leave Amelia. If he ran, he'd be shot down.

He might go back to Hell with Lucifer.

He turned to his guns, the Colts, the Winchesters, the Smith & Wesson's. He touched the Kurdish Knife in his pocket and pulled out his phone and called Garth. The answering machine picked up and he said, "I'm being picked up by the feds. Left my special knife and key for you behind that gun you like at my shop. If I get out, I'll be looking for them back, but if not…. It's been fun, Garth. Protect Kevin."

He hit end and dropped the phone on the ground. He crushed it easily, thinking of the other hunters, of Kevin, of demons out for his blood and disarmed himself, hiding the knife and the bunker key where he promised, behind a Winchester rifle. He grabbed a Smith & Wesson's pistol, a magazine and a handful of bullets.

He turned to the door and walked out, locking the door behind him like Tony would want. He put the key under the flower pot outside and sat down on the steps outside holding the police scanner in his hands. He waited patiently as the cars arrived. Officers and the SWAT team appeared, armed and dangerous.

He didn't look at them as one yelled, "Sam Winchester, drop your weapon! You are completely surrounded and under arrest!"

Sam nodded and laid down the loaded Smith & Wesson's. He refused to look at the officers.

He refused to let them see his weakness.

Dean would be brave in this scenario.

Sam would be brave, too.

"Lay down on the ground and put your hands on your head."

He nodded and complied.

Several pairs of hands grabbed him. They cuffed his wrists and manhandled him to his feet. They lead him to one of the police cars and locked him in. They yelled his rights in his ear and rattled off charges of murder, impersonating an officer, identity theft and grave desecration.

In a flash of brilliance, or perhaps desperation, he thought of his defence.

He didn't want a needle in the arm.

He didn't want life in prison.

He needed to do this.

"It's not my fault," he whispered, growing louder and louder until he was screaming in the back of the van, "I didn't do anything. I didn't hurt anyone. Luke's the bad one, Luke did it, not me, never me, Luke and Azazel – they did this! They hurt these people! I want Dean! I didn't do anything! It's not my fault! Where's Dean?! I didn't do anything! Why does everyone blame me for things that aren't my fault?!"

His shouts followed him to the police station.

…

"Breaking News, Channel 8, this is Janet Stars with Texas Today.

"Sam Winchester, the most famous serial killer and mass murderer of America, the second half of the Brothers Grimm, has been apprehended last night. America can finally rest now that the surviving half of the Deadly Duo will now be brought to justice.

"His brother, Dean Winchester, has yet to be apprehended."

"Now onto the Dallas Cowboys…."

…

Doctor Richard Alston, Ph. D, M.D., FBI, observed the young man pull at the restraints on the table through the one-sided mirror. He had reviewed Sam Winchester's case file, his psychology profiles, the crime reports, and still felt as if he knew nothing about the man. The young man's long hair obscured his face as he yanked at the handcuffs on the table and the ones tying his feet to the chair. He had looked over Sam Winchester's brother's case as well and found it hard to believe that Sam would be the one who was caught first. He was here to determine whether Sam Winchester was cognizant of his rights, whether he could be interrogated, and whether he could get Sam to confess, turn on his brother or something of a similar nature.

He sighed, gave a long-suffering look at his colleagues Officer Alex Giannis and Officer Hector Perry and entered the interrogation room. Sam Winchester stopped moving immediately and looked up at his entry.

He took a seat across the table in front of him and said, "Hello Sam Winchester, I'm Doctor Richard Alston and I would like to talk to you today."

"Do you know where my brother is?" Sam asked immediately, "Did you find him?"

"Actually, we were hoping you could tell us where Dean is."

"I can't," Sam said, looking pained.

"If your life is in danger, we can protect you," Richard Alston said, "We need to know where Dean is."

Sam's face crumbled slightly, as if he was about to cry, "I can't tell you."

"It can affect your prison sentence, Sam, if you cooperate with us. We can maybe get you parole, take the death penalty off the table. If you don't help us, you'll get the needle in the arm just like your brother."

Sam rocked forwards and backwards in his chair, shaking his head, "I can't tell you," he repeated, sounding very young.

"Why not? Would Dean hurt you?"

"Dean would never hurt me," Sam replied, "Dean would never hurt anyone."

"Sam," Alston sighed, "We have thousands of witnesses. We know what you and Dean did. All we need is to know where Dean is."

"No," Sam shook his head, "Dean didn't do anything. Dean and I never hurt anyone."

"That's not going to work, Sam," Alston said, "We have gallons of blood on you and your brother's hands. We have videos. We have witnesses. We have mountains of evidence. If you don't help us apprehend your brother, you will go to prison and you will be executed."

"Why does everyone think Dean and I did something bad? Dean and I didn't do anything! We didn't hurt anyone!" Sam insisted, openly crying now.

"Where's your brother, Sam?" Alston asked again, ready to give up.

"I don't know!" Sam replied, shouting, "Luke took him and hid him and he won't tell me where! Luke did something horrible that night and I can't find Dean anywhere!"

"Luke?" the doctor repeated, "Who's Luke?"

"I can't tell you."

"You must tell me who he is and where we can find him," Alston said, "Is Luke one of your friends?"

"I can't tell you. I'm not allowed to."

"Why not?"

"You won't believe me," Sam said, over-enunciating his vowels through his tears.

"Try me," Alston said, "Tell me who Luke is."

"Luke's a demon," Sam whispered, sobbing, yanking until red lines formed around his wrists from the cuffs.

"Is Luke a voice in your head?" Alston asked.

Sam shrugged, shaking his head. He lowered his head until it was cradled by his bound arms.

Alston's ear piece crackled in his ear, "_The suspect yelled about a Luke and an Azazel when he was apprehended_."

"Sam, this is very important. Who is Luke?"

Sam shook his head.

"If we know who Luke is, we can find your brother."

Sam stiffened. He whispered, muffled slightly into the skin of his arms, "You promise?"

"I promise that we will do everything we can to find your brother. Tell me who Luke is."

"Luke is a monster who lives in my head and does bad things in my body and blames everything he does on me. Everyone blames me for what Luke does, but I swear, I fucking swear, I didn't do anything," Sam cried, shaking in his chains, "Luke took Dean and he won't tell me what he did or where he is! He said if I told anyone, Dean would die, and I know it's true. He'd kill Dean and he'd make me watch! I don't want Dean to die, he's the only good thing in this world. He's the only family I have left."

Richard watched Sam sob into his arms for a few seconds before he asked, "Who is Azazel?"

"Azazel?" Sam whispered.

"Yes. When we took you in, you yelled that Luke and Azazel had done the bad things. Who is Azazel?"

"Azazel is Dean's demon," Sam said, voice shaking, "Luke is mine. There are others – like Ruby, and Crowley, and Mike, and Adam – but Azazel and Luke are the bad ones. They hurt people. Azazel and Luke killed Dad, and if I'm being arrested for killing people – that means Luke and Azazel were punishing us."

"What did you do to deserve punishment?" Alston asked, "Why would Luke and Azazel punish you and Dean?"

"We _told_." Sam moaned, "We told Bobby and he got us medicine that made Luke quieter and made Ruby and Adam all but disappear."

"Bobby?"

"Bobby Singer," Sam whispered, face pale and earnest, "Luke killed him, too. Luke and Azazel didn't want to go away, they don't want to leave us alone and they took us and they must have done horrible things to get Dean and me into trouble."

Richard stood up, "Would you like something to drink, Sam?"

Sam blinked up at him, "Okay."

"Water or cola?"

"Water."

…

Dean had only been in Purgatory for two and a half months. Castiel panted at his side, brandishing an axe of obsidian and bone. Benny grinned, swinging a hand-fashioned blade of what looked like glass and branches. Dean clutched his sword tight.

They were surrounded – vampires and werewolves and shifters and kitsune all around them, closing in quickly.

It was primal and it made Dean finally feel alive for the first time in years. For a while, he was going through the motions for Sammy's sake, and after Sam came back from Hell – _one hundred and sixty years of cruel, degrading torture _– trying to keep them going, trying to keep them together, trying to keep them both sane. Of course, Sam was falling apart, and he knew that even though Cas could heal away the hallucinations, those nightmares came to them both hard. Plus, sometimes Sam would cry about things that made Dean's skin crawl, and Dean didn't know how to do chick-flick moments and kiss it all better. Sure, with every battle Topside, he felt himself chip away, and for every stress he would feed the bloodthirsty black hole that was his soul with everything from food to sex to drugs to alcohol – but here, in Purgatory, he felt like a hunter again. He didn't have to lie about anything, he didn't have to smack a smile on his face, he didn't have to say he was fine.

He just had to survive.

He hoped Sam wasn't stressing himself out too much struggling to find him – Purgatory, can you believe it? Fucking Purgatory was _real_, and they never even guessed it. Hell was a given, Heaven wasn't too much of a surprise, but _Purgatory_, too? What's next, Hel and Hades? How about Valhalla? Then again, Purgatory could almost stand for Valhalla, too, but with less hot chicks.

Even more so, he hoped Sam didn't turn back to demon blood in order to tap into his powers to try and bring him back. And he hoped Sam didn't try to make a deal with Crowley or the Angels or anybody. Most of all, he hoped Sam didn't just shoot himself and damn himself to Hell – when Sam had went to Hell the first time, Dean had held the gun to his head every day and only stopped because he didn't want Ben coming across his body.

But here, there were no guns. There were no children – not really. There weren't any desirable women, and only a few fumbled nights with Cas and Benny for comfort. There wasn't any food besides monster flesh – and he didn't feel hungry anyway.

There was only the fight.

And Dean's soul was healing, finally.

…

"Is he legit?" Officer Giannis asked.

"You read the file," Alston said, "Psychotic father that killed his mother in his nursery and burnt the house down. Abusive father that jumped schools and changed names as often as you and I change our underwear. Dead father immediately after the brothers united with him. Horrific behaviours remarked upon by all of his classmates at Stanford, the Moores' statement on how, when he visited with Jessica Moore for the holidays, he talked about never feeling safe and loved besides when he was with his brother, eyewitness accounts of his psychosis. The other profiles mention the possibility of dissociative identity disorder amongst others, and since both brothers were raised to be as dangerously co-dependent as possible it is possible that both had the same disorder that split the same way. There are twin studies on it – though they aren't twins, they are closer than most identical sets I've heard about."

"I think it's a load of crock," Officer Perry added in, "Everyone knows multiple personalities are only for movies and books – bad ones at that. It's more like he's a psychopath trying to play you, or maybe a schizo, if he didn't partake in thousands of murders all over the country."

Alston shrugged, looking at Sam fidget in the room all alone, "It's a source of controversy in even the psychological community. Half say it exists, others don't. Most cases are 'crock' as you say, but the legitimate cases I've studied, the subjects had been victims of severe abuse as young children, and since John Winchester most likely murdered hundreds and severely abused his children, it is possible that both of the Brothers Grimm dissociated from the abuse in similar ways."

"What type of abuse are we talking?" Giannis asked.

"Does it matter?" Perry snapped, "Plenty of kids were abused and didn't go on to murder hundreds of thousands of people."

"But there were kids who were abused who went on to abuse their own kids," Alston said, "About seventeen to thirty percent of every generation of abused children will abuse their own children or murder other people. And since their father most likely was a serial killer, it is not so out of the ballpark to assume that Sam and Dean followed in his footsteps."

"They thought it was normal, you're saying," Perry scoffed.

"No," Alston said, "Most serial killers were abused as children. Psychologist issues are often hereditary. If a serial killer abused his children and also had a psychological defect, his children are exponentially more likely to become serial killers than an average, loved person."

"Does that matter, though?" Perry asked harshly.

"It matters to the definition of the motive," Assistant Federal Public Defender Zeya Ray said, "Are you interrogating my client without an attorney present?"

"Not an interrogation. I'm analysing his mind-set to see whether or not he can consent to an interrogation," Richard said, "My name is Doctor Richard Alston. I am a psychiatrist."

"And?"

"I believe your client has Dissociative Identity Disorder, but I need to continue speaking to him. You are free to listen in," Alston said.

"Doctor Alston!" Perry exclaimed angrily.

"I am a psychiatrist first and foremost, Officer," Alston said, "You know that."

Richard re-entered the room and handed Sam Winchester the cup of water. He fumbled with the cuffs but gradually brought the cup to his mouth. He gulped down the water and said his thanks to the doctor.

"Let's talk about your father."

"Dad? Why?" Sam asked defensively.

"You said Luke and Azazel killed him. Why was that?"

"Luke and Azazel hated Dad."

"Why?"

Sam shrugged.

"Why didn't Azazel and Luke love your father like you do?"

Sam shook his head.

"You need to answer me if I am going to help you find your brother."

Sam frowned at him and put the cup back down, "I love my father – but he wasn't a great man."

"Can you expand upon that?"

"After Mom died, he went off the deep end. He drank a lot and he yelled off and he'd go off for weeks at a time – "

"Where were you and Dean when he did that?"

"At the motel where we were staying or in the Impala."

"Did you have food?"

"Dean would always find some somewhere, or Azazel would steal some. Azazel got Dean sent away once – Azazel was stealing bread and peanut butter for us to eat while Dad was gone but then Dean got sent to a foster home. Luke and I found him eventually, and Dad was so mad."

"What happens when your father's mad?"

Sam shrugged.

"What happened, Sam?"

"I don't know – Luke would handle it. Luke knew how to keep me safe while Dean was being punished."

"Do you have an idea of what happened when you got punished?"

Sam paled and nodded reluctantly.

"What happens?" Alston asked quietly.

"Dad would hit us or lock us in the trunk for a night or make us run laps until we passed out and sometimes when we were really bad he'd make us hurt each other."

"Why didn't you run away?"

Sam looked at him as if he had two heads, "Run away? I tried that, when I was twelve. Dean and I got punished real bad but Azazel and Luke knew how to deal with it. Luke wanted to kill Dad but Dean wouldn't let him."

"Why didn't Dean let Luke hurt your father?"

"Because then we'd have to get the bad punishment," Sam said, "He's make Luke hurt Azazel."

"But not you?"

"Luke would handle it," Sam repeated, "When Dean couldn't protect me, Luke did."

"What else did your father do? He beat you and he forgot to feed you – was there anything else?"

Sam shrugged and looked down at the table.

"Sam," Alston prodded, "What about my promise to find Dean? You know I'll only do that if we can talk about this, okay? Was there anything else that your father did?"

"When we were real little, when Dean was eight or nine and when I was five, Dad would…." Sam mumbled the rest.

"What was that?"

Sam shook his head.

"Sam."

"Dad would hurt us."

"Hurt you how?"

"Don't make me say it," Sam whispered, begging. Alston shifted uncomfortably as the man curled inwards on himself.

"You have to, Sam," Alston said, "You have to. What did your father do to you and your brother? Did he touch you inappropriately? Did he make Dean touch you? Answer the question, Sam."

Sam rocked backwards and looked up. He turned his head slightly, his hair fell out of his face. His lips pressed together and he sat up straighter from his hunched over position

"Sam?" Alston pressed, "Did your father sexually abuse you?"

"Sam's not here right now," he said coldly.

"Luke?" Alston asked hesitantly.

Sam – _Luke_ – smiled tightly, "Bingo. By the way, yeah Daddy touched Sammy and me in a bad place a long ass time ago, but Azzy and I wasted that son of a bitch."

"Would 'Azzy' be 'Azazel'?"

Luke cocked his head, "Yeah. But he's dead, too."

"He is? Where's Dean?"

"Dead," Luke replied grinning openly now, "I killed Deano a long ass time ago, him and Azzy. I wrapped my fingers 'round his neck, held my knife to his pulse and beat him 'till his blood ran dry."

"Why did you do that?"

"Sammy didn't learn his lesson. I told him to leave us well alone. We've been in this thing for so long. I stick my neck out for the whiny bitch and he turns around he starts swallowing these damn pills and going to fucking therapy about the fucking voice in his fucking head that always been there – I've protecting us since we were fucking young enough to scream for Mommy instead of Dean and Azzy, and he goes about trying to fucking kill me, fucking telling on us. Azzy and I have been doing this bit for as long as we've been around this fuckery, and he fucking tries to fucking off us. The both of them, that jerk and that bitch!"

"Jerk and bitch?"

"God, keep up! You fucking slow? Deano and Sammy! Plus, Azzy was looking at Sammy all wrong. He was making moves, saying that Sammy was special, that he fucking loved him – Azzy doesn't do that sort of shit, not to me, not to Sammy, not to some whore on the street."

"Azazel – you felt Azazel, Dean's alternate personality – was going to molest Sam?" Alston asked to clarify.

"Like Daddy, like sonny, right?" Luke sneered, "He was gonna start touching on Sammy – _my _Sammy – just like that son of a bitch Daddy did to us. And Sammy wanted to kill me. Now, I like Azzy, I wouldn't have minded it so much if he had been touching me – but he wanted _Sammy_. And Sammy and Deano were trying to keep secrets – they were gonna kill us. I don't wanna die. Besides," Luke grinned, "Azzy and I like our fun. Sammy wanted to settle down, but Azzy found us. He torched that bitch in Sammy's apartment – we would have had some real fun too, but Deano came to and grabbed Sammy and dragged us out. Then Dean and Sammy went to go find Daddy, because Daddy knew how to keep Azzy and I in line. Besides, Sammy might be arrested for murdering that bitch. Then Deano and Sammy swung through St. Louis and Azzy took a turn and that drew me out because Azzy wanted to touch Sammy, and I wasn't gonna let that go down. So Azzy found all these bitches and started whacking 'em. He cut 'em up real nice. Some of them even looked like Mommy. Azzy was trying to draw out Daddy, you know, because Daddy was drawn to hits like that like a moth to a flame. But then Sammy freaked and I lost it, momentarily. Sammy shot Azzy and dug him up later, replacing him with some homeless guy. Deano was fine, o'course, it was just like a few nights in the trunk like what Daddy did to us sometimes. 'Course Azzy and I usually handled that sort of punishment. Deano and Sammy? They're _weak_."

"So Azazel and you murdered all of those people."

"We had to teach Sam and Dean a lesson," Luke said, shrugging, "They could only trust themselves, each other, and us. No one else."

…

Dean had been in Purgatory for three and a half months when they met up with a kitsune he recognised.

"Amy?" he asked.

"Dean Winchester," she returned him, "How'd you end up in monster hell?"

"Killed the Leviation king and the backlash landed Cas and me here."

"What?" she asked after a long pause, "You're not going to ask how I got here?"

He didn't answer, staring her down.

"You put me here, Dean. You left my little boy to become a murderer. He can't feed himself – what's he supposed to do when I can't come home with organs taken from a dead man, huh? That's right – he can't do anything but kill people. And that's your fault."

She lunged forwards and Benny cut her in half with ease.

Dean, for the first time in what seemed like years, felt regret about a hunt.

He shouldn't have killed her. She wasn't hurting anybody, not really.

He should have listened to Sam.

God, how he missed Sam.

…

"The people ask for remand, Your Honour."

"I agree, completely. Sam Winchester shall be held in maximum security Lock-up at Hutchinson's Detention Centre for Severe Criminals."

…

"Sam Winchester, you are being accused of six hundred and fifty seven counts of first-degree murder, three hundred and forty-two counts of impersonation of a federal officer, five thousand two hundred and fifty-three counts of grave desecration, and superseding indictments are to be decided."

…

"Your Honour, this is my motion of the suppression of Sam Winchester's interrogation on the basis that he was interrogated without counsel present."

"Motion denied, counsel."

…

"Sam Winchester, how do you plead?"

"Not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect."

…

Jackson del Vass was in prison for five counts of murder – his wife, his sister-in-law, his brother-in-law and his two kids – and he, like all of his fellow murderers, serial rapists, and federal bank robbers, had heard the story of the Brothers Grimm that marched from coast to shining coast of the grand, goddamned United States of America, leaving only blood and carnage in their wake. Charlie Heldara, baby-rapist, was convinced there would be some showdown between the cops and the brothers, and the brothers would go down in gunfire. John Smithy Wesson, prostitute-murderer and ex-pimp, thought the pair were already dead – convinced that the explosion that took out the feds on their case took the brothers out, too. Shi Yang, run of the mill murderer, thought the brothers would disappear into the apple-pie life and be captured in ten, fifteen years. And Quesalla Bonfoi, federal bank robber and murderer, thought the brothers had killed themselves after they lit up in the next federal office.

Jackson del Vass was sure they were alive and kicking, and it turns out he was half right. Especially when the new prisoner, just across the hall, ended up being Sammy Winchester, the deadlier half of the duo. As the saying goes, "Whoever said Dean was the dysfunctional one has clearly never seen Sam Winchester with a sharp object in his hands."

Now, the inmates had talked about the Winchesters living passed a shoot off and ending up in prison. Some (like Sue – someone's daddy liked Johnny Cash – Dilligan) assumed that if only one got in, the other would break them out soon enough. Others (like Jeff Davis) assumed that if one got in, he'd kill himself. Some (like Carnagie Willis) thought they'd team up, or maybe compete, and kill as many inmates as possible. Others (like Mel Jason) thought they'd organise a prison revolt and attempt to take over the prison – well, everyone knew Mel Jason was three fries short of a Happy Meal. Some (like Peter Panofsky) even thought that they might be a bit mad and speak to each other only in Latin, but Pete, like Mel, was more of a leaky old cabin in the woods, when everyone else was a house in suburbia, at some level.

Now, no one, not even Jackson, expected Sammy Winchester to be this mad. He was real quiet, except at night when he screamed like he was being tortured. And during the day? He was a real sweetheart. A few sickos even commented on bending him over in the showers, but somehow Sammy always knew what people were saying about him and he'd come up behind them with wild eyes and he'd hold up a broken fork and smile at them, real sweet, and he'd stab 'em in the crotch – he didn't get in trouble for it, not like anyone else, because he had some sweet insanity plea working for him. He'd call himself Luke and yell about molesters not deserving to live and the officers would leave him alone in his cell.

After a while, Jackson came to the conclusion that like a lot of them, Sammy had it rough growing up. His daddy touched him in a bad place and beat him until he bleed out gallons, and apparently he killed his own brother because he's as mad as Alice and the Hatter in Wonderland. Now, Sammy had it a little worse than most because he tried to stop himself from the anger, the one that makes people kill, but his brother came along and dragged him back into the life. Or so they heard.

Plus, it's the first time any of them had heard a serial killer raising a pair of them. They'd all heard about evil begetting evil, and most of them were murderers and rapists and abusers like their daddies before 'em – but serial killer Johnny Winchester raising the worst pair of murderers since Bonnie and Clyde and Frank and Jesse James. They were worse than Dahmer and Bundy and the Smiley Face Killer put together. They were both mass murderers _and_ serial killers – the other one, Dean, likes to cut up women real nice, and he liked to torture young men. Sammy, though, Sammy liked a little variety.

Now, Sammy didn't brag about his hits like some of them (not like David Chukofsky or Herald McGee) and he didn't like to assert control over men in the showers (not like Chuck Green or Emil Torrey) and he didn't like to gamble (Not like Fred Munch or Carl Zox). He didn't drink or smoke or fuck or gang like the rest of them.

He was different.

He had a lot of scars and he had one tattoo over his heart – a pentagram. Plus, he'd hoard salt, just hoard it, and cut it open and pour it just within the bars of his cell in front of the door.

In the showers, he'd wash his hair casually and when men made remarks, he'd turn around and beat them cold – even if they had knives and other weapons. It was the like the man was blessed or had visions – he just knew when the ambushes were and avoided them. Even vastly outnumbered – twelve to one outnumbered – Sammy Winchester was ready for them.

He'd take them all down and once they were all passed out, they'd hear him laugh or scream – depending on whether or not "Luke" was involved.

Did Jackson believe that Luke was real?

Not at all.

Okay, maybe a little bit, because "Sam" seemed completely different than this "Luke" fellow.

Then again, they'd all heard about how charismatic Sam and Dean were – they had fifty different identities at any given time and could play all the roles splendidly – FBI, to Insurance Agent, to Fraternity Brother, to Lawyers, to EPA agents, etc. – so it wasn't inconceivable that Sam was completely playing the insanity card to get off scot-free – a few years in a federal insane asylum compared to the overhanging thought of the needle like the rest of them? Which would you choose? Which would anyone choose?

Plus, psychiatric hospitals weren't as stringent on escapees as federal, maximum-security prisons.

But it wasn't until six months into Winchester's lockup pretrial that Jackson decided he liked Sammy.

Now Jackson wasn't as big a guy as some people in Hutchinson's, and he wasn't as muscly as some of them. He didn't want to work out with the others in the yard and those meals they gave them wasn't meant for gaining weight. Jackson, actually, was shorter than a lot of the guys and killed his victims with his guns not his arms or his hands like some of the guys. Plus, he was a bit softer-hearted than some of these guys so when they came up to him real nice like, he let his guard down. At least he did the first time. Sam wasn't big per se – he didn't have flab anywhere – but he was real muscly and real tall and arguing insanity, and he was trained for outnumbered scenarios.

Jackson was younger than most of them, too, only thirty-one, and he looked it. Sam looked younger because he was super healthy, but that long hair and the stubble aged him upwards. But most men can get really into the long hair scene, turn them on their stomach and you can barely tell the difference.

Or at least that's what they told Jackson when they grabbed him that first time.

Six months into Sammy's wait until trial, they grabbed for Jackson in the showers while Sammy was in there. Jackson braced himself to wait it out, but Sam….

Sam walked on over, grabbed them by the necks and smashed their heads into the wall until the blood washed down the drain. He pulled himself up, hair all wet and sticking to his shoulders and helped Jackson to his feet. He gave him a half-smile and said, "Hi, I'm Luke."

"Jackson," he grumbled back, "Thanks for you know saving my ass. Literally."

Luke/Sam shrugged, "That's just what we do. Saving people, hunting things, the family business."

"And what qualifies as a 'thing,' may I ask?" Jackson asked curiously.

Luke/Sam shrugged casually, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Jackson smiled knowingly and decided then and there that Sam – or Luke or whatever – was going to be his friend here. Loners need a group of course besides fucktoys and druggies and whackos right?

…

Dean had been in Purgatory for about five months when a chill went down his spine. He felt like something horrible was happening Topside and he was praying – yes, he was praying to God, or Chuck, or Cas or whatever – that Sam hadn't eaten a bullet while Dean was AWOL.

He hummed Zeppelin and Metallica to stay calm and laughed at the thought he used to be so afraid to fly. He amused himself with memories of Sam as a snotty little brat. He cheered himself with images of easy salt and burns and building flamethrowers to char wendigos. He dreamt of a day where it would be so easy and carefree with Sam, thinking of that year where he was damned to Hell. Benny found it weird when Dean talked about that year and calling it one of the best years in his life. Sure, he was damned, but it was like a light at the end of the tunnel.

Benny even said the same thing Sam did that one time, but he said it all accented, "Dean, that light you saw at the end? That was hellfire, man, not the Grace of Heaven."

Dean remembered that year fondly. He had indulged himself to the point of almost religious levels – hedonism and damnation was the closest he had ever come to religion, outside of the battles between Heaven and Hell and the realism of fighting in Purgatory. He remembered tasty burgers and dreamed of driving baby – and Sam was definitely taking care of her, of course – down the highways and singing along to Styx with Sammy and making fun of him. He fantasized about swindling frat boys and truckers out of their salaries at poker and darts and pool. He even masturbated to the memory of whiskey and wine and Wheaties. He missed Topside life.

He missed beer.

He missed baby.

He missed easy hunting.

He missed laughing with Sam.

He missed crying with Sam.

He missed living with Sam.

But most of all, he missed Sam.

And he was going to go get Sam back.

Whether the bitch liked it or not.

A Leviation formed in front of him and he brandished his weapon cheerfully, with Sam's floppy hair, earnest eyes, and brooding shoulders in his mind's eye. Benny spun behind him and Cas touched a few foreheads and life was good. Hope lived on and they fought for their dreams, and for the right to live their lives as they should – alive, in pursuit of happiness, with all the freedoms afforded to them.

…

Amelia Richardson sat in the meeting hall. There were dozens of them, hundreds even. Witnesses for both sides, sitting casually together. They couldn't sit in the audience watching the trial. Not if they were witnesses. She stared at her fingers, at her bare left ring finger and she fingered her choker necklace where all of the rings, including Sam's engagement ring, and she began to doubt herself.

If Sam got out, if he was acquitted against all odds – there was no way he wouldn't know she is testifying against him, that she was the one who turned him in. There was no way he could ever forgive her – and to be the betrayer of a dangerous, psychotic sociopath? She was signing her own death warrant if she went in there. Of course, she would also be held in contempt of court if she didn't go in and she'd lose her practice.

She touched her hair and sighed as the trial started. She pulled out her phone and called Stacy and blathered about nothing, trying to keep herself together.

…

"Sam Winchester," the prosecutor began, "is a dangerous, murderous felon. He has lied, cheated, stole, and murdered. He has changed his name as often as you and I change our clothes. He steals identity like five year olds steal cookies from the cookie jar. He lies as often as a scam artist. He carries a knife on him at all times. His car is packed with weapons. Sam Winchester, as the defence will try to tell you, had a harsh upbringing, harsher than most of you, but that is no excuse for mass and serial murder. Sam Winchester is a sociopath. Plain and simple.

"You'll hear from countless witnesses about the kind of man Sam Winchester is – not some abused little boy forced to murder by an overbearing, abusive father and a co-dependent, murderous older brother. Sam Winchester _chose_ to murder Jessica Moore. Sam Winchester _chose_ to murder seven women in St. Louis alongside his brother. Sam Winchester _chose_ to hold a bank hostage in Milwaukee. Sam Winchester _chose_ to escape federal lock-up and prison. Sam Winchester _chose_ to murder hundreds throughout the nation in states ranging from New York to Oklahoma to Arizona. Sam Winchester _chose_ to be a monster.

"And you can choose to stop this monster in his tracks.

"I ask you to choose right. Texas asks you to choose right. America asks you to choose right.

"Put Sam Winchester away.

"Be a hero, and do what is right."

…

Zeya Ray stood and began to speak, "You've heard the prosecution talk about ethics and doing what's right. The world is not what's simple. You've heard the statistics, you've watched the news. Some of you have even watched the video recordings of what has happened. My client, Sam Winchester, murdered those people, but why?

"Sam Winchester was born into the dysfunctional home of John and Mary Winchester. His mother was murdered over his crib in his nursery. His father was a murderer, a schizophrenic and had religious psychosis. His father was abusive – physically, emotionally, and sexually. My client and his brother were molested and broken by a destructive, evil man.

"My client and his brother did what abused children do in broken, dysfunctional homes – they tried to find a way to move on, to slap a smile on their faces, and keep on living. And to do so, for my client to go to school even though his father raped him the night before, for my client to take the SATs with a concussion, for my client to run away at the tender age of eighteen with a broken arm – to do this, my client's mind broke in two: into the part that was intelligent and friendly and tried so hard to be alright, Sam Winchester, and into the evil, malicious, broken half called Luke. The same occurred with my client's brother. Both Sam and Dean bonded together – yes, they were co-dependent, but that was all they could be to stay alive. They had to survive not only the abuse of their bodies, but of their souls.

"You'll hear from several psychologists all testifying to my client's disorder. You'll hear from several witnesses to testify to Sam's character and upbringing. You'll hear about Sam's unhealthily close relationship with his brother. You'll hear about a broken man who tried so hard to do good, but a part of him, a part he physically and mentally could not control, a demon within him, did horrible things.

"I will show you what you should doubt about the prosecution – should Sam Winchester be punished for something he did not consciously do? The answer, my dear, is no. Luke Winchester did those things, Luke was created with the sole purpose of keeping Sam alive, and Luke killed all of those people. Sam did not.

"Acquit my client. My client needs help not death.

"Wouldn't you help your child, your brothers, your parents if they had a demon inside of them that did horrible things?

"You would. And you should do the same for Sam Winchester.

"_That _is what's right."

…

Dean had been in Purgatory for six months when he felt physically ill. Benny looked him over worryingly and Cas remarked, "Your soul is crying."

"My _soul_?" Dean grunted, "Do I even still have that?"

"Yes," Cas replied, like an adult with Asperger's.

"Why's it crying?!" Benny yelled worriedly, "What do we do?"

"We can only do the same thing we have been," Cas said monotonously, "Return Dean to Sam's side on Earth or in Heaven."

"And why would that fix it?" Benny grunted.

"Sam and Dean are complimentary souls. They have never been apart for so long."

"It's only been six months," Dean whinged, "Sam and I have done years apart. We've done a half decade apart even. Six months is fucking ridiculous. It's not long-ass enough time for this to be happening!"

Cas shook his head confused, "No."

Benny stood, towering over Cas easily and holding his makeshift scythe threateningly, "Want to expand upon that, angelface?"

"Dean frequently visited Sam in secret while he was at Stanford. Sam took a complete, continuous leave of his senses when Dean was damned to Hell. Sam – or shall I say _half_ of Sam – often visited Dean at Lisa and Ben's home. I assume that both Sam and Dean are severely emotionally unstable and feeling physical psychosomatic illness on either side due to the large time apart," Cas replied easily, "They are soul mates. This happens to all soul mate pairs who separate for long periods of time. Often, when one dies, the other follows within a half of a decade. And, more often than not, the other follows within the year of the other's passing."

"Is Dean dying?" Benny asked threateningly.

"Not yet," Cas sighed, "But he might. Within the year."

"Well," Benny drawled, pulling Dean to his feet, "more of a reason to blow this joint, eh?"

…

"Please state your name and occupation for the record."

"My name is Amelia Richardson. I'm a veterinarian."

"What is your relationship to the defendant?"

"I," she paused looking at Sam's betrayed expression, "I was his fiancée."

"You bitch," he said. She stiffened and he stood up, repeating, "You fucking bitch!"

"Ray, control your client."

"You betrayed us, you bitch! You betrayed us both! I'm going kill you and I'm going to make Sammy watch! You _fucking, traitorous, janus bitch!_"

"Attorney Ray! Bailiff!"

"I'm going to eat your intestines and dance around your dead body! Sammy never should have trusted you, you bitch! You're a traitor just like Dean! _Just like Dean_!"

"Get the jury out of here!" the judge was yelling, "Bailiff take the defendant back to lock-up! Control your client!

Amelia, unnoticed, began to cry, his voice reverberating in her head, but one thing remained.

_Us?_

…

"How'd it go in court, today?" Jackson asked.

Sam shrugged, shoving the apple slice into his mouth.

"C'mon Luke, baby, throw the man a bone."

Sam smiled at him, "Unless they challenged and dismissed the jury, I think today went fine. Sam's fiancée flipped on him, that bitch. I told Sammy he could only trust us, but does he listen? No, the fucking bitch doesn't listen and look at us now! In prison, on trial. I could have kept us safe, but he had to go and go fuck it up."

"So you're going to be a free man soon?"

"Maybe," Sam shrugged again, "Maybe not. It all depends how the dice fall."

…

"The defence calls Julia Erikson to the stand."

A little old lady walked up to the stand and gingerly seated herself.

"Please state your name and occupation for the record."

"My name is Julia Erikson. I'm retired now, but I was a teacher from 1979 to 1999 at Cavalry Junior High. Best twenty years of my life."

"What is your relationship with Sam Winchester?"

"I taught him for two months when he was in seventh grade in Camapoissett, PA. I remember all of my students."

"During those two months, did you notice anything odd about Sam Winchester?"

"Many things," Julia nodded, "He never spoke to anyone unless I forced him to. He was often injured. He only socialised with his brother as far as I could tell. And, he was really creative. He wrote a short story about being trapped in some hell and looking out into the world jealously."

"Was there anything else, Mrs. Erikson?"

"Not that I remember."

"Why didn't you report your misgivings to CPS?"

"I tried," Mrs. Erikson murmured sadly, "But by the time they came, the Winchesters were all but dust on the wind."

"Did you try to keep up with what the Winchesters did and where they were?"

"Yes, but I lost track of them when they left the state. Then I saw the news about those two sweet boys going around killing people."

"How did that make you feel?"

"I was failure," Julia said, shaking her head, "If I had just reported those boys the first time I saw the injuries instead after seventy-three days of it, maybe, just maybe, they would have turned out alright. We failed those boys. Each and every teacher failed those boys – I can only try to right my mistakes now."

…

Dean had been in Purgatory for seven and a half months when he collapsed in a fight. Cas grunted as he appeared over him and smited a few beasties. Their bodies crumbled in front of them and Dean moaned, his hands cradling his bandaged head. His greasy hair stood up in muddy tufts around his head and his tattered clothes hung off his muscled, too-thin body like a homeless man's. Cas knelt next to him worriedly and Benny hovered over them.

"Is he going to make it?" Benny asked.

Cas reached out a hand and some of Dean's injuries healed, "Yes, it is just going to be painful for him."

Dean moaned, clutching his chest, right where his heart was, and all he was imagining was Sammy going through the exact same thing.

…

"The defence calls Doctor Sarah Hemmingway to the stand."

A petite, voluptuous brunette woman in her thirties with big square glasses on her round nose approached the stand and seated herself.

"Please state your name and occupation for the record."

She coughed and said into the microphone on the stand, "My name is Doctor Sarah Hemmingway, I am a psychiatrist with a speciality in dissociative disorders."

"What is your educational background and experience?"

"I…."

Sam couldn't hear the woman speak, because suddenly all he could hear was his blood pumping in his ears. He felt his heart speed up from within his chest and he reached up to claw at his sternum. He gasped out something and yelled something intelligible, and he fell back in his chair. He felt something wrong inside of him – _something that was so wrong, and would never be healed _– and he felt pain consume his being.

His public defender turned towards him, grabbing his arm and he shrieked as his jaw suddenly shrieked in pain as if he had been uppercut five times by Dean or a demon. He reached up to grab his face and his sternum burnt with fire-hot agony. He shuttered and shook and he vomited. The pain raised even more so, pushing past his pain threshold and forcing him to his knees next to his seat. People were rushing around him but he barely noticed as the darkness overtook him.

His elbows gave out and all he could see was his inner eyelids.

He awoke handcuffed to a hospital bed.

Nurses and doctors came into and out of the room and none spoke to him, though he did hear something about a sudden heart attack, and how that was common in some extremely healthy young men. Sam didn't care, though. He was focused on the fact that he nearly died in court and he was trying to figure out a way that could help his case – no options were found that he could think of. More importantly, Sam thought about Dean. He thought about the time that Dean was electrocuted and only had a few months left to live. He wondered if heart problems were meant to follow his family around. He thought of Dean at the Mystery Spot, the seventeen heart attacks he suffered.

Eventually the public defender showed up at his bedside. He turned to her and said, "Is Sammy okay?"

"You had a heart attack," she said, as if he didn't already know.

"Is Sammy okay?" he insisted.

"Yes, Luke, you and Sam will be just fine."

"Do you promise?" Sam asked in Luke's voice.

"I promise," she said solemnly.

"Is Sammy going to die?" he asked after a moment of silence between them.

"Not today," Zeya said.

"No," Sam said, "Is Sammy going to go to jail and dying because of what I did?"

"Is that guilt I'm hearing from you, Luke?" Zeya asked playfully.

"Answer me," Sam said.

Zeya shook her head, "I don't know. I honestly don't."

Sam was silent for a while. "Well, even if Sammy and I go to jail, you were a great lawyer."

"The trial's not over yet, darling." Ray smiled half-heartedly, "I'm still determined to get you off. You need help not execution." That was when Sam realised he had convinced even her of his insanity. He felt like he was Edward Norton in _Primal Fear_. He smiled softly and pretended to go to sleep.

…

A week had passed from Dean's initial collapsing. His health continued to deteriorate and Cas began to hover more worriedly around him. Sometimes they'd stop to rest every few hours or so and Dean would doze off. Sometimes Dean would ask Cas to tell him stories about his life and watching humans take over the world. When Cas was tired of talking, Benny would take over talking about being turned and his life with his maker.

"You were vampire pirates?" Dean asked slowly.

Benny nodded.

Dean grinned half-heartedly, "You were vampirates."

"Vampirates?" Benny repeated dumbly.

Dean raised a brow, "You never thought of that? Sam and I would think of that in the first few seconds."

"Tell me about Sam," Benny requested.

Dean grinned fully and started to educate his best friends on his favourite subject.

…

Sam sat in court waiting for the psychiatrist to reappear – he had finally been released from the hospital – and he still felt horrifically ill. Zeya leaned over, "Are you okay, Sam?"

He shook his head, "Something's wrong."

"What's wrong?"

"Luke's not talking to me. I don't know what's going on," Sam told her, lying. What was really wrong was the fact that there had been a demon at the hospital and he had been tempted to just drink him down to make the illness disappear – Sam did that the last time Dean died and went to Hell. Whenever Sam felt ill or weak he'd just find a demon and drain him or her dry, but Sam had promised Dean. He didn't want to break another promise. He had exorcised the demon without drinking a drop.

"Do you want to hear about Dean?" he asked Zeya, startling the woman. It was 7:30, and the trial wouldn't restart until eight.

"Dean?" Zeya repeated.

"My brother," he told her, nodding, "Luke still hasn't told me where he put Dean, so I thought I'd just talk about him until Luke gives in."

Zeya paused and said quietly, "Luke told us that Dean was dead."

Sam shook his head, "Dean's not dead. He can't be." He rubbed his breast bone, right over his heart, "When Mom died, Dad gave me to Dean and told him to run outside as fast as he can and to never look back. And he did."

And so Sam went on to talk about his favourite subject to his defence attorney.

…

When the trial started again, Sam was telling Zeya about how Dean protected him from bullies in middle school and got him food when he was hungry and made him warm when the motel didn't have heat.

Sarah Hemmingway talked about how she graduated from Berkeley and worked at a successful psychiatric facility and then she was asked about Sam, "I interviewed Sam Winchester in twelve separate instances for one hour each time and I diagnosed him with Dissociative Identity Disorder."

"Can you describe Dissociative Identity Disorder for the court?"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder, or D. I. D., is a mental disorder on the dissociative spectrum. Normal dissociation is where a person falls into a daydream or imagines being elsewhere, however, in D. I. D., the subject will experience extreme dissociation so that an entirely different personality will take the subject's place. The entirely different personality is known as an alter, and several alters are not uncommon. D. I. D. can also result in auditory and visual hallucinations, fugue states, compulsions, eating disorders, and severe memory-loss, as the subject's original personality will dissociate with certain events who will be remembered by the alters rather than the subject."

"How does one acquire D. I. D.?" Zeya asked.

"It begins as a normal dissociative state in a severely traumatised child – a child, for example, that is severely psychologically and physically abused by a trusted caregiver – and the dissociative state expands. The dissociated personality state will become a separate, or several separate, personalities with their own likes, dislikes, ages, gender identities, styles of speaking, handwriting, hand dominance, and their own purpose in protecting the original subject."

"How did you diagnose the defendant, Sam Winchester?"

Sarah Hemmingway's eyes flicked to Sam's and she said, "First I reviewed Sam Winchester's upbringing which I found to be extremely neglectful, physically traumatic, emotionally unhealthy and stunting, and sexually abusive. His father, his trusted caregiver, was the central figure in the abuse. Sam Winchester also has an unhealthily co-dependent relationship with his late older brother, who is also alleged by Sam and Sam's alters to exhibit symptoms of D. I. D. as well.

"Secondly, I reviewed other prognoses connected to D. I. D. The defendant exhibits auditory and visual hallucinations of his most dominant alter, Luke. He experiences anorexia when Luke is in control. He has several suicidal compulsions. His religious-based psychosis makes Luke, and his other alters Ruby and Crowley, to be demons possessing him at certain times within his mind. The defendant is also severely anxious prior to an alter taking over. The defendant has also experiences severe drug and alcohol abuse in connection to his disorder. His alters also has a predilection towards violence both towards themselves and others.

"Thirdly, I drew out his alters with hypnosis. Luke, otherwise known as Lucifer, is the most prominent alter of the three. Luke is left-handed, violent, and extremely controlling of Sam and Sam's actions. Ruby, his least active alter, presents herself as a woman, and is a drug-addict. Crowley, his medially active alter, is a gambler and is ambidextrous. Luke formed when Sam was very young, Crowley formed when Sam's father died, and Ruby emerged following the initial violence of Luke."

Zeya nodded and said, "Is there any way to treat Dissociative Identity Disorder?"

"Yes," Sarah Hemmingway nodded, "Years of psychotherapy, hypnosis, and medicine to deal with the symptoms of depression and anxiety."

"Did Sam commit the crimes he is accused of?" Zeya asked finally.

Sarah frowned and said, "Sam's body committed the crimes, but no, the personality making up 'Sam' did not do so."

"If Sam were treated, would his alters disappear?" Zeya asked.

Sarah pursed her lips and said, "In a way, yes. Their components and memories would once again become a part of Sam."

Zeya nodded and asked, "So, if Sam were treated, and his alters dissolved, would he murder again?"

"No," Sarah Hemmingway said, pushing her glasses up her nose, "The alter that murdered those people, the alter that murdered those people to control Sam, would be completely absent. Sam would have no need to punish himself with the death of people around him, and Sam would feel guilt over everything his alters did. He would be, more or less, like you and me. He wouldn't murder ever again."

Zeya nodded, "No further questions."

The prosecutor stood up, "Isn't there controversy over Dissociative Identity Disorder?"

Sarah nodded slowly, "There is controversy within the psychiatric community, yes."

"So how do we even know it's real?"

Sarah looked at her coldly, "It is in the DSM-5. Despite the controversy, it is recognised currently and has been for several decades. There are treatment procedures for it. We must assume it is as real as Schizophrenia or Bipolar Disorder."

"Wasn't homosexuality considered a disorder for several years with treatment procedures?"

"Yes, but – "

"Isn't homosexuality now recognised as completely normal?"

"Yes, but – "

"So how can you expect the jury to acquit a murderer on the basis of a disorder that might not even be recognised in a few years?"

"Objection! Argumentative!" Zeya yelled, standing up.

"Overruled," the judge said, "I want to hear this."

Sarah broke out into a sweat, "Homosexuality, unlike Dissociative Identity Disorder, was considered to be unnatural in the early 1900s, but now we know better. Dissociative Identity Disorder, unlike homosexuality, is very real and really hurts people and really needs treatment."

"But isn't that what the psychologists thought about homosexuality up until it wasn't a disorder anymore? No further questions."

"Redirect, your honour," Zeya said, standing up, "Doctor Hemmingway, can homosexuality be treated?"

"No."

"Can Dissociative Identity Disorder be treated?"

"Yes."

Zeya smiled, "There's the difference, right there, counsellor."

…

Dean had been in Purgatory for eight months when he felt physically ill. He bent over right after a fight and vomited. Suddenly, he felt himself seize. He began to shake and cry out and he fell to his knees around the bodies. He dropped his makeshift blade and felt pain surge through him like a tidal wave. He grabbed his arm and he felt his teeth burst into a maelstrom of hurt. He felt himself seize on the ground and Benny and Cas knelt next to him.

Cas flipped him onto his back and Dean stopped breathing.

Benny began CPR as Cas frantically began to heal him.

That was the twentieth time in Dean's life, though he only knew three, where his heart was in jeopardy of killing him for good. He wondered about if he died and whether or not he'd leave Purgatory. Sometimes, he seemed more savage than the beasties in Purgatory, but then again, he'd always been that way. While Dean was unconscious after being resuscitated, he thought he almost heard Castiel tell Benny, "Sam has probably already had two or three heart attacks by now if he has not started to drink demon blood again."

But that's crazy, right?

Sammy and he had survived years apart before, but then again….

They really hadn't.

…

After the defence and prosecution said their closings and gone to deliberate, Sam was transferred back to Hutchinson's until that jury of twelve decided his fate. It had been three years and four months since Dean had disappeared, exploded right before his eyes. He wondered briefly about crawling through the Gates of Hell and looking for Dean there – but what if he wasn't there? What if Dean just ceased to exist?

On visiting day, he got a visitor. It was Kevin and he was talking about how he had finally translated the trials to close the gates of Hell forever. Sam smiled at him really nicely as Kevin told them what they were. Killing a Hellhound and bathing in its blood. Saving an innocent soul from Hell. Curing a demon.

They all sounded impossible.

If Sam was acquitted, he told Kevin, then he would close the Gates of Hell.

After all, like Kevin said during the visit, only Winchesters could do the impossible.

…

Dean had been in Purgatory for nine months, two weeks and three days.

It still felt like the first day.

…

The jury had been deliberating for six and a half months, marking this as the longest deliberation of a jury in the history of criminal and civil court case America. Sam hoped it was worth it. He had said goodbye to Jackson and put on his tie. He looked at the scar on his hand and thought of Lucifer's laughing face and wondered if Luke would have to come out and play, just one last time. A big finale. If they didn't mark him insane of course.

Sam would be honest with his reflection. He thought he was going to get the needle in the arm. Hell, on most days, he could even accept it. Welcome it even. Heaven, Hell…what did it matter anymore? Well, it shouldn't be too hard to escape prison and commit the trials to close the Gates of Hell. Garth had died in the six months they had been deliberating. Amelia had visited once to apologise for turning him in – and Luke had screamed at her until she left. Sam didn't much want to see her. She had a wedding band on her finger and she wore her old rings around her neck. She moved quickly, of course.

Sam was almost as old as Dean was, when Dean died. It had been three years, ten months, and twenty-seven days since Dean had disappeared. It had been two years and seven months and twenty-two days that he's been on trial and arguing insanity.

Sam shuddered as he entered his mode of transport. His hair had grown another four inches, and he could tie it back in a ponytail now at the nape of his neck. Dean would laugh at him if he could see it. Sam's hair grew really slowly compared to other people, which is why he refused to cut it. He thought of the rock musical, _Hair_, and began to hum in Luke's voice the tune to "Aquarius."

Dean would laugh at him if he could see him hum the lyrics to a hippie "rock" musical.

God, how he missed Dean.

At the trial, he sat quietly in his seat.

"All rise," the judge said.

Zeya and he stood up, though he swayed on his feet drunkenly.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"We have, Your Honour," the spokesman said quietly, "We find the defendant guilty of all charges."

Sam felt as if he'd been shot. He began to laugh, hysterically, as the judge remanded him to Hutchinson's until sentencing. He tried to think of something witty, something scary to drive his insanity defence home, but his mind was blank. He simply decided to hum Metallica as the Bailiff yanked him out. Zeya was saying something, but he didn't hear her. He just hummed Metallica until it was Styx until it was Pink Floyd until it was Bon Jovi until it was Zeppelin until it was Skynyrd until it was the Beatles, like Dean used to sing to get him to stop crying. He had lied his way through court, played insanity for so long, and for what? He was convinced he was going to get the needle in the arm, have it all end, and go back to Hell with Dean. He had dragged his family's name through the mud, and for what? He was going to die anyway, and his hunter's career was over. No picket fence. No dog. No wife. No kids. No college education. Nothing. No brother. No father. No mother. No friends. No family. No legacy.

No, there was something he could still do.

…

Jackson watched him in the two months it took for sentencing to come and go. He sat beside him in the cafeteria and walked him to the yard and addressed him by every name he knew until he finally asked, "Luke?"

Sam looked up at him and said monotonously, "The guard is a demon and has been for a year and a half."

Jackson gave a fake laugh and said, "You're funny. I know it didn't turn out how you like, but Luke, it'll all be okay. Prison's not that bad."

Sam turned to him and smiled too widely, "I know it isn't. Thank you. For everything."

Jackson's Pan-Am smile melted off his face quicker than water on summer tar at the equator, "You're not going to do something stupid are you."

Sam grinned and stood up, walking over to the guard with ease, "It'll all be okay."

"Luke? Luke?! Luke! Don't do this!" Jackson called.

"Stay put," Sam whispered, "It'll all be okay." He felt the chest pain surge within him and the nausea had been plaguing him for hours. If he didn't move quickly, he would in fact die. Dean would understand, God, he prayed Dean would understand. He had done all this, lied so much, just to stay alive. This was a necessary evil. He only had to do this until he closed the Gates of Hell, and if the Trials didn't kill him, then the withdrawal surely would.

He pulled out the shiv he stole from Mel and suddenly slashed the guard's throat. He could hear the demon blood pump, he could smell the raw power of tortured soul screaming within the guard, he could taste his renewed health in the other man's veins. He grabbed him like a lover and wrapped his lips around the cut and sucked until the other guards tackled him to the ground. He had drained eight pints. The man, the non-vessel, was surely dead.

It didn't matter though, because Sam's heart pumped new blood. He would live to see all demons dead.

In solitary confinement, which he's been in for three weeks, he amassed all of the supplies. He cut his wrists to draw a devil's trap, took his prisoner identification, graveyard dirt from the yard, and a black cat bone and buried it under the door, under the cement. It was a makeshift crossroads and he knew it, but it would suffice as the clock outside his cell hit midnight.

"Winchester," a demon spoke behind him.

"Snooki?" he asked, raised eyebrows.

"I can't be here," she whinged, but she couldn't leave due to the trap under her feet, "Fuck you, man! I'm not allowed to be here."

"You can leave," he told her, "After you make a deal with me."

"A deal? No, no, no, I don't make deals with Winchesters. We're not allowed!" she whinged nasally.

"Because I'm the alleged Boy King and my brother already broke the requisite seal to release Lucifer?" he asked slowly.

"Yeah," she replied dumbly, "So let me go."

"No," he replied, "I want to make a deal to make my sentence a mental institution, low security rather than maximum security death row."

She shook her head.

He laughed, darkly, "You act like you have a choice." He reached into his clothes and pulled out the Kurdish knife Kevin had unwittingly smuggled into him within a secret compartment in an _older than fucking time_ Bible. There was a hole between the bindings that the metal detectors thought was just the staples in the pages. Yeah right. Kevin said it was for safe keeping, which they had coded a long time ago to be a weapon.

She shuddered but held her ground, "Why shouldn't I just sick Hellhounds on you now?"

"I dare you," he smirked, "Or are you just bluffing?" She seemed young. Stupid. Impulsive. She rolled her eyes and he hear the telltale growls. It lunged at him, pushing him onto his back. It glowed over him and blood splashed on top of him as its dead weight fell to the side. She gasped and he tossed the knife at her. It sunk into her stomach and her skull looked to be electrocuted. She fell down dead next to the body.

"That wasn't even a challenge," he sighed. He pulled out his piece of paper and intoned slowly, "Kah nuh ahm dahr."

His arms glowed briefly, illuminating the mess in the darkness but eventually quieted.

"That was weird," he said in the darkness.

…

Dean had been in Purgatory for ten months.

He felt worse every passing day. He begged God on his knees every day to let his brother live.

…

Sentencing was on his thirty-fourth birthday. His birthday present was death row. Dean had been gone for just about four years and some change now.

He had to leave Jackson and Mel and all of the crazy folk at Hutchinson's for Calloway's. _Yay,_ he intoned internally, sarcastically, hopelessly. His health was beginning to fall as demon blood worked its way out of his system.

Of course, the inmates at Calloway's had heard all about him and how he drained a guard dry with a shiv and his tongue. Plus, he had murdered more people than most of them put together. They left him alone outside of a few standoffs in the showers where a bunch of men died and their blood washed away in the showers. Even though Luke's phony existence was worthless, it didn't make him end up in solitary as often as anyone else would. He'd collapse in the showers after knifing a gang of would-be rapists and start crying about Luke and his non-existent molestation – except that stint in the Cage he refused to acknowledge – and the guards would let him off with a slap on the wrist. It was useful to be labelled insane, if not by the jury, but by the guards.

Sometimes he wondered whether or not he was getting too in-depth into his game. Luke wasn't real, of course.

Right?

…

The good thing about death-row was that someone died every so often and that allowed Sam to enact his second course of action – riding a reaper into Hell and freeing an innocent soul. He had asked a few pointed questions of Kevin and other hunters that Kevin was the new Bobby of and found out about the underground soul trafficking that went down. Kevin got him some fake credit cards and cashed out a few grand.

When other serial killer Cameron Douglass was injected, Sam tackled the reaper and said, "I have seven grand worth your while to ferry my soul to Hell and take two souls back out. What do you say?"

The redheaded, green-eyed British reaper scoffed and said, "Seven grand American? That's barely four thousand pounds sterling."

"4000 pounds sterling versus nothing?" he asked her, "Even four thousand is better than jack."

She sighed and said, "Name's Lily and I will be your Charon today."

"Do you know of any innocent souls in Hell?"

She looked him up and down, "You'll find one."

…

Dean had been in Purgatory for eleven months when his health suddenly skyrocketed.

Cas and Benny made worried eyes at each other while Dean felt as healthy as he'd been when he was alive. Cas murmured something about Sam maybe dying but Benny smacked him upside the head. Dean couldn't be aware of any speculation of Sam's mortality.

Unbeknownst to them, three miles to the east, Sam Winchester was marching through Purgatory looking for a passageway to Hell, and six hours later, he was marching six miles to the southeast of them back to the meeting space accompanied by none other than the redeemed (and hijacked) soul of Bobby Singer.

…

Sam Winchester had been missing from death row for three days when he reappeared. Bobby went to heaven and Sam intoned the Enochian, "Kah nuh ahm dahr."

His arms glowed and he felt his sickness surge. It was different from the heart disease though – it felt more to do with his blood burning in his veins.

The guards looked at him suspiciously, but none of them mentioned his unexplained absence – after all, if the man had truly escaped, why would he ever, in a million years, willingly return?

…

Dean had been in Purgatory for one year when their band of misfits found the portal to Earth. Castiel expressed hesitance about leaving, but Benny told him that if Sam was already dead, Dean would need him on Earth.

The three escaped to Earth with ease and reappeared in Maine. They made it to Benny's body and he reformed easily, and Cas found his wings and used them to bring them to Rufus' cabin. Benny ran off to find his sea legs. Cas and Dean recuperated for a few days, eating and sleeping for the latter for at least a week.

Dean finally texted his coordinates to Sam's old phone.

…

It had been five years since Dean died, and Sam was being visited by Amelia Richardson Dawson. She was shaking and he almost brought out Luke, but he didn't.

"What's wrong?"

She numbly held up his old, years outdated phone and said, "What do these numbers mean?"

Sam's heart nearly stopped in his chest. He grinned suddenly and said playfully, "You have no idea what it means at all, do you?"

"No."

"They're coordinates. Go there, find a cabin in the woods, and tell him where I am."

"Tell who?" she asked.

"Dean," he smiled at her.

"Dean?!" she repeated, "He's dead."

Sam shook his head, smile still on his face, "No, he's not."

…

Amelia Dawson entered the cabin warily, lady-pistol clutched too tightly in her hands. In the driveway was her ex-fiancé's old car, the dusty, Chevy '67 Impala, and she was absolutely terrified of what she'd find. She drove it there, just in case Sam wasn't absolutely insane. She opened the door and found an empty house. She sat gingerly at the cobwebbed couch and waited.

Eventually the door opened and she cocked her gun. She had bought it earlier that day and she had absolutely no idea what she was doing, "Whoever you are," she yelled, "I'm armed."

Staring back at her was a face she had never forgotten, the face that made her call the emergency operators and report her fiancé for murder, the man who grinned at the camera and shot at civilians, the man who cut up pretty women not so different from herself. This man single-handedly ruined her new life.

"Who are you?" the dead man demanded, holding a sawed-off shotgun to her head.

Her eyes rolled up in the back of her head and she collapsed.

She awoke tied to a chair, with a bucket of water thrown at her face. She sputtered and spit it out.

"Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" Dean Winchester – _back from the grave, serial killer, mass murderer, maybe-rapist, oh fuck_ – demanded holding a wicked looking blade to her - _tender, supple, soon to be sliced wide like a cherry pie_ – throat.

"M-m-my name is Amelia Dawson," she cried, tears streaming down her face as her bowels lost control, "Sam Winchester was my fiancé."

"Was?" he growled out, waving the knife, eyes wide and as insane as Sam's – _Sam in court, Sam at the visitor's window, Sam yelling out obscenities, Sam drunk and throwing things _– "Answer me, you bitch. What did you do to my baby brother?!"

"He's in prison!" she squealed, "Please don't kill me. I have a husband and a baby at home, please, please, please don't kill me."

"Prison?" he repeated, "Why?"

"Are you, are you," she stuttered, trying to recall the name Sam yelled on the interrogation tape they showed, "Are you Azazel?"

He blinked, confused, "Azazel? The demon? Sammy and I killed him a long-ass time ago," she was reminded hysterically of Sam's alter's style of speaking all the 'long-asses' and 'fuckings' were just like how Dean speaks, "What does he got to do with anything? Why's Sammy in jail?"

"I Googled him," she sobbed, "He was wanted by the FBI. I reported him. He was tried and convicted of like a thousand counts of murder."

"Bitch," he growled, "What does Azazel have to do with anything?"

"He plead not guilty by reason of insanity," she attempted to explain, "He said he had multiple personalities – Luke, for Lucifer, Ruby, Crowley, and that you had Azazel, and that the alters murdered all those people, not you two."

"What?" he asked dumbly, cocking his head.

"Aren't you supposed to be like forty by now?" she asked, sobbing.

"What year is it?" he asked, growling again.

"It's 2017. July." She sobbed, sniffling, "Please, please, please, don't kill me."

"I've been gone for five years?" he asked dumbly.

"Yeah. Sam and I dated in 2013, and he proposed. He would leave all the time with Kevin and Garth – who probably weren't even real now that I think about it – and then he was on trial for two years and now he's on death row!"

"My baby brother's on _death row_?!"

"Yeah, he's being held at Calloway's Detention Centre for Incurable Inmates!" she shook in her chair, "If you're going to kill me, please do it quick."

"I'm not gonna kill you!" he shouted, "Where? Where's the prison?"

"Texas," she nodded, snot on her face and tears glistening unattractively."

"Cas," he said, turning around to a man who was definitely not there five seconds ago, "Take her home. She's useless. Wipe her memory if you can."

"Yes, Dean," the other man nodded.

Amelia Dawson remembered Dean's visit no more. She was back home, with Riot at her feet, on the phone with Stacy.

…

It had been five years, seven weeks, and three days since Sam and Dean had last seen each other.

Dean's first thought was that Sam's hair had gotten really long while he was gone. His second thought was that Sam looked _old_. Old and tired. He was about Dean's age, if not technically a little older now. And Sam looked as if he had an even harder time than Dean did. His third thought was that Sam was somehow even bigger. Muscled. Standing up straighter. And knifing a gang of inmates. Dangerous. Taller. He was this sleek, action hero version of Dean himself. His fourth thought was that Sam's face when he finally saw Dean standing at the edge of the fence was like a cancer-ridden child doomed to die had just been told he was cured and going to Disney Land, like all of his prayers had been heard, like his sweetest, most dear wish had been granted.

Sam's first thought was that Dean looked the exact same. His second thought was that Dean had a new scar on his forehead, just under his hairline, and it looked like the sea. His third thought was the Dean's muscles bulged and he was really pale as if he never seen sunlight in the time he was gone. His fourth thought was that Dean looked like a goddamn vision – an answered prayer.

Sam raised his Kurdish knife and held out his hand. Dean cut himself easily. Sam did the same. The welling of blood was beautiful between them.

No one noticed.

No one saw.

Only the brothers saw each other.

It was magical.

At midnight, Sam stabbed the guard walking by and dragged him into his cell. He had long since broken the lock on his cell door. He didn't leave or anything, it just made him feel powerful that he could leave whenever he wanted. He switched clothes with the guard and took the man's gun, baton, keys, and handheld transmitter. He cut the guard's hand and wrote: "_The Morning Star has Come and Gone._"

He then renewed his devil's trap and walked out.

Dean met him in another guard's get up

Sam pulled him into a hug and Dean returned it.

Later they would talk. Sam would tell him all of his lies and all of his truths. Dean would recount a heroic odyssey across Hell's toilet. Sam would tell him about the Trials and Dean would tell him about Benny. Sam would talk about murder and falling off the wagon to live. Dean would talk about an ever-present illness. They would fight. They would yell. They would embrace. They would sing.

But they would do it together.

They marched out of the prison and down to the parking lot where Cas sat in the backseat of the Impala. He would lay a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder and Sam would pull him into an embrace. And they would drive off, ready to face the demons and angels of tomorrow.

It was time to leaving arguing insanity behind them.

In the morning, it would be all over the news, but that's what the normal people liked best about their world.

…

"Breaking News, Channel 8, this is Janet Stars with Texas Today.

"Sam Winchester, the most famous serial killer and mass murderer of America, the second half of the Brothers Grimm, escaped from maximum security state prison Calloway's Detention Centre for Incurable Inmates where security cameras show him stealing officer's clothing, meeting with another pseudo-cop and escaping with a third figure in a 1967 Chevy Impala.

"The authorities believe that it is highly possible that one of the two men aiding in Sam Winchester's escape is Dean Winchester, the second half of the Brothers Grimm.

"America must be very afraid now that this Deadly Duo is back in business.

"Lock your doors, America. Protect you children.

"If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of either of the Brothers Grimm, call the number listed on your screen"

"Now onto the Dallas Cowboys…."

…

Three figures sit in a diner in Kansas. One is drinking a coffee. One is eating a salad. One is eating a burger. One is in a trench coat. Two are in cheap suits. All is well.

**Two Days and 17,000 words later, thank all that is good (like Mountain Dew and cheap pizza) that I finally got this story out of my head. It's been fun. Now, I can finally focus on my original story for NaNoWriMo. **

**Read and Review. Or don't. Hope you enjoyed the ride. If you need to fill in the blanks, just insert the rest of season eight and nine and ten (if you're watching ten - I'm one of the sorry folk who has to wait until it's on DVD or Netflix; sad face).**

**Peace.**


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